Night of the Hawk Page 6

  “Must be refueling,” White said. “How long does it take to refuel a helicopter?”

  “Not long,” Knowlton replied. “He’ll be up again by the time Ladybug is feet-dry.” He paused, looking at White with growing concern. “But we can’t delay the launch or we’ll run out of daylight.”

  “I know, I know,” White exclaimed. “We’re committed. If Fell or PATRIOT sees a problem developing, we’ll wave Ladybug off, and RAGANU will have to go deep into hiding-or make a run for Poland. Jesus, what we need right now is a good thunderstorm to hide in.”

  But they did not even have the good luck of bad weather to help them on this one.

  White had reported that they needed to be no higher than one hundred feet to go under the radar from the Gagarin-class radar ship. One hundred feet would have seemed like a mile to Fell and Watanabe right now, because they were flying their CV-22 in full airplane mode only thirty feet above the Baltic Sea. The plane’s engine nacelles swiveled down to full horizontal, so the helicopter rotors were now airplane propellers. Aided by the high-resolution infrared scene projected onto their helmet-mounted sights by the AAR-50 thermal-imaging navigation set, and by their AN / APQ- 174 multimode terrain-following radar, the tiny warplane streaked inbound, changing course every ten to twenty seconds, skirting as far as possible around the growing number of vessels they picked up On radar. In OVER WATER mode, a tiny beam of radar energy measured the distance between the CV-22’s belly and the water, and a warning light would illuminate if the distance dipped below twenty feet.

  The pilot was responsible for keeping the aircraft a safe distance above the water—no autopilot in existence had the precision to hold such a low altitude. Flight and sensor information was electronically projected onto Fell’s helmet visor, so he didn’t have to look down into the cockpit for vital information—a fraction of a second’s distraction could kill them all. As long as there were no sheer obstructions such as ships or towers in the flight path—the radar altimeter did not look forward, only downward— they were safe.

  That is, if flying less than a wingspan’s distance above the water at four miles per minute could be considered safe.

  The plane was to drop the MSPF team about ten to twelve miles from the coast, but obviously the closer to shore they could get before running into hostile detection systems, the better. In their case it was not hostile Soviet radars—it was the huge number of boats that kept popping up on radar. But there was an “obstacle” to contend with—the port town of Liepaja, now only fifteen miles away. The piers and warehouses along the coast were so bright now that they threatened to destroy their night vision—and if they could see the town, someone could well see them. They managed to get closer than ten miles to shore before encountering boats they could not safely circumnavigate, but the closer they got to shore, the harder it was to avoid them.

  “All right, I think we’ve gotten as close as we can get,” Fell told Watanabe. “I can’t go far enough around these sonsofbitches. If they get an eyeball on us, the game is up. Alert the team and get the cargo doors open.

  Watanabe made the interphone calls. The glow from Liepaja was so bright now that it created glare on the CV-22 PAVE HAMMER’s windscreen.

  “Christ, it feels like the whole world can see us up here,” Fell muttered on interphone. “Double-check switches, Martin. If we make one squeak on the radio or forward-looking radar, they’ll pick it up all the way to fucking St. Petersburg.”

  Watanabe carefully checked to see that all the radio switches were on STANDBY or RECEIVE, the APQ- 174 was not in TFR mode, all other radios that could transmit a signal were in STANDBY, such as the instrument-landing system, and that all exterior lights were off.

  The AAR-50 infrared scanner showed the area around them was clear for at least eight miles, the optimal range limit for the FLIR. “Clear on cargo doors.” As Watanabe hit the switch to open the rear cargo ramp, Fell rotated a small switch on his control stick, which rotated the engine nacelles on the wingtips of the PAVE HAMMER and transformed the bird from a conventional turboprop plane to a helicopter, and the CV-22 began slowing from two hundred and fifty to only thirty miles per hour.

  In the back of the cargo section of the aircraft, the ramplike cargo door lowered and a blast of frigid air washed over the MSPF team waiting in the back. The team was ready: they had a large twenty-foot rubber boat, called Combat Rubber Raiding Craft (CRRC), or “Rubber Raider,” complete with a 75-horsepower gasoline engine and extra fuel tanks, waiting in the open cargo hatch. The team was dressed in “Mustang suits”—black nylon water suits that protected the wearer from the cold, provided flotation, sealed out water, and allowed much more mobility than divers’ wet suits. Their weapons, radios, and other gear were sealed in black waterproof bags slung around their shoulders.

  When the signal was given, the MSPF team members picked up the boat by its rope handles and ran out the cargo ramp into space, dropping into the ice-cold water below. The weight of the Marines on the handlines kept the CRRC from flipping over, and they began pulling themselves into the boat, stabilizing it against the hurricane-like turbulence from the CV-22’s rotor downwash. Seconds later the CRRC’s outboard engine was started, team members loaded and checked their MP-5 submachine guns and .45-caliber automatics and, with Lobato providing directions from a compass and from his intense advance study of the area, they raced off for shore.

  Aboard the CV-22, Sergeant Brown reported that the Marines were safely away, and Fell wheeled his plane westward once again and sped away from shore, staying below fifty feet but carefully avoiding all boats that popped up on his FLIR sensor. At that same time, Watanabe relayed a single message on the command channel: “Teviske,” which meant “Motherland” in Lithuanian, the signal to Paul White and the rest of the assault team that the Marines were headed ashore.

  Marines, especially Recon or special-operations teams, never fought alone. No matter how big or how small the team was, Marine Corps infantry units were always supported by a command, air, and logistics element. That simple “go” message would send the rest of the players into action:

  As PAVE HAMMER returned to the Valley Mistress for fuel and to rearm with a two-man assist team, a Marine Corps KG- 130 aerial-refueling tanker began its takeoff roll from Sandefjord Air Base, south of Oslo, a NATO training base where the U.S. Marines had established a Northern Europe operations center. Flying along with the KG- 130 was a CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter-a huge transport helicopter—with a reinforced rifle platoon called a “Sparrowhawk” on board ready to assist Gunny Lobato’s team if necessary. Watanabe’s message also alerted other detached members of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Force in Denmark and Germany that the operation was in progress and that intelligence and planning teams were standing by, waiting for word on the team’s progress and preparing alternate plans of action.

  The U.S. Air Force also had a support network .ready to go, with even more firepower than the Marines. Launching from Rhein-Main Air Base in Germany and under command of the Air Force Special Operations Command, was an MC-130P special-operations tanker aircraft—designed to refuel other aircraft at low altitude and over hostile territory or near a target area—accompanied by two F-16C Fighting Falcon fighters. Carrying mine dispensers, rocket pods, and antiradar missiles as well as air-to-air missiles, the heavily armed F-16s could assist the Marines on the ground to break away from hostile ground units, or they could clear the skies if the Soviets decided to scramble fighters against the rotary-wing aircraft. Additionally, the MC-130H COMBAT TALON aircraft from England, code-named WILEY COYOTE, and its fighter escorts from Norway, would begin their rendezvous orbit near the southern tip of the island of Gotland, ninety-six miles west of Liepaja, ready to pick up RAGANU and take him to safety. The Valley Mistress itself would dispatch several small, innocent-looking power boats-armed to the teeth by COBRA VENOM Marines—into the Baltic to act as a safety recovery team in case the CV-22 was damaged during its egress.

  Lobato and his crew were dropped only eight miles offshore, but it took them nearly an hour to reach the sandy shore north of Liepaja—they would stop the heavily muffled outboard engine every few minutes, and Lobato and his men would carefully scan the horizon, using PVS-5 night-vision goggles, checking for any sign of pursuit.

  The assault team relied on their training and experience to filter out the noise of waves and water—and suppress their own fear and discomfort— and be ready to take action against any possible threat. Despite carefully donning their insulated “Mustang suits,” leaks were common, and the wet patches against their fire-resistant flight suits soon felt raw and numb from the wind-enhanced cold. Thick wool face masks and caps did little to protect against the wind-driven spray—they would hunker down as far as possible under the CRRC’s gunwales, exposing as little of their bodies as possible to the elements while constantly scanning all around them for signs of danger. The radio operator, using a small 5.5-pound Motorola MX-300 tactical radio, had to struggle to listen to the radio as well as scan his area of responsibility. Every sweep of a nearby lighthouse’s high-intensity white beam made the Marines tense up as they neared the shore, and Lobato was careful to keep that lighthouse as far away as possible.

  Finally they heard the crashing of waves on the beach, and the assault team was ready to land. Every eye was trained on the beach, searching for anything that might be a threat—patrols were common, but civilians out for a late-night stroll were encountered even more frequently, and posed just as great a risk. Lobato made the decision to move the beaching spot an extra mile south because of an object that resembled a truck or large car parked near the coast highway, but otherwise their beachhead was clear.

  With a soft hiss of sand, the CRRC slid onto Soviet soil. Immediately the
Marines were out of the boat, ignoring the shock of cold water in their boots as they dragged the rubber raft out of the surf, across the fifty-yard-wide beach, and up onto a sandy ridge a few dozen yards from the coast highway. The CRRC was quickly buried in the sand and covered with brush, the area was policed and tracks erased, and the assault team spread out to search for threats along the highway.

  Their task was only beginning-they had five miles to trek before reaching the extraction point.

  USS VALLEY MISTRESS

  29 NOVEMBER, 0100 (28 NOVEMBER, 1900 ET)

  “All air assets are up,” Knowlton relayed to Paul White in the number-two MISCO trailer, where the tactical communications gear was set up to monitor the mission. “All reporting in the green.”

  White smiled: ten sophisticated aircraft, about thirty highly trained men, plus a three-hundred-million-dollar high-tech spy vessel, directly involved in an operation to extract a non-American individual from a republic in the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). In two hours they would all converge on the eastern Baltic and the game would be played to its conclusion. If you included the men and women of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit, standing by in Norway and in the Mediterranean Sea, and the 93rd Air Force Special Operations Wing in England, there were nearly six thousand Americans involved in trying to get one man out of Lithuania.

  Countering them, of course, was the awesome might of the CIS-Byelorussian Army, Air Force, and Navy in the occupied Baltic states. Even after wholesale troop withdrawals in recent years, there were still over fifty thousand foreign troops in the three Baltic republics themselves, plus over a half-million more Belarus troops within a few hours’ flying time.

  The odds clearly were not in the Marines’ favor.

  Only three things gave the Americans any chance for success—the speed, bravery, and stealth of the eight men who at that very moment Were setting foot on Lithuanian soil to put their hands on a Lithuanian peasant officer.

  “Urgent message from PATRIOT,” Knowlton said, grabbing White’s attention. “That chopper is heading back to the target area. It’ll be on top of the assault team in ten minutes, maybe less.”

  “Shit,” Paul White swore. They all knew the helicopter was going to be a factor. “Have PATRIOT relay the contact to the assault team. I’ll get on the horn to Colonel Kline.”

  White hustled to the communications console and put his hand on the phone that was tied directly to the Amphibious Task Force commander, Marine Corps Colonel Albert Kline, commander of the 26th MEU’s (SOC) Ground Combat Element, on the amphibious-assault carrier Wasp—then stopped. What would he recommend? He had sent this team on its way knowing the helicopter, which had been dogging them for days, was in the area and would probably be a factor. Should White now recommend additional assets be brought in? One of the F-15’s escorting COMBAT TALONs could make short work of a helicopter, but it would blow the whole mission if the Gagarin radar ship saw it barreling in toward the coast.

  No, they had to use the CV-22. “I need a status report from Ladybug,” White snapped. “Give me the location of WILEY COYOTE as well.”

  The locations of both aircraft and an estimate of the CV-22’s aircraft’s fuel status were laid out for White on a chart in the MISCO trailer. The MC-130 COMBAT TALON special-operations support aircraft was in its standby orbit seventy-five miles north, near the southern tip of the Swedish island of Gotland, well within view of the Gagarin-class spy ship but presently being left pretty much alone. The CV-22 was headed back to the Valley Mistress for refueling and rearming, sweeping well to the south and west to stay away from the Soviet radar ship.

  White made the only decision he could: “Tell the MC-130 and the CV-22 that they need to perform an emergency rendezvous. I need Ladybug back in the target area without delay.” White himself found a plotter and a pair of dividers and, using a base refueling speed of 180 knots, computed a rough rendezvous point about forty-three miles west of Liepaja: “Clear COMBAT TALON for ‘music,’ and keep the escorts in the rendezvous area. Send it.”

  “Pojorna, nas razyidinili, butti lubezni, paftariti, “the Marine assault-crew radio operator suddenly heard in Russian on the radio. It came over the receive-only command channel-a broadcast from PATRIOT, the E-3B AWACS radar plane. Translated, “Squad, reply not received, repeat message.” It was meant for Lobato and his crew, a warning message saying that the helicopter that had been working the target area was on its way and heading toward them. For maximum reliability, emergency radio messages from the AWACS to the assault crew were not scrambled or encoded with complex algorithms, which meant that intercepting and decoding a message was easier for the enemy-hence the code words in Russian.

  The Marine carrying the radio moved quietly to Lobato’s side and passed the word to him, and Lobato nodded. They knew all about the helicopter, and Lobato had been expecting it—the wise play would be to assume the helicopter would arrive just as the Marines approached the target area. Lobato increased the assault team’s speed, still using extreme caution but picking up the pace slightly.

  But he wasn’t expecting what happened next. The unit had traveled within one mile of the estimated pickup point when they heard the faint whupwhupwhupwhup of a helicopter in the distance.

  The CIS helicopter that had been scouring the area for days looking for RAGANU was closing in on the Marines’ position.

  “Message from PATRIOT,” the radio operator reported to Lobato. “The chopper is inbound, slowing to patrol speed.”

  Lobato seethed: “Shit… we’re running out of time.” Lobato signaled the rest of the squad and they fanned out and headed for the pickup spot. The Marines hastily split up and dashed into the treelines on both sides of a small dirt road, carefully staying just within sight of each other, MP5 submachine guns at the ready.

  They moved as if linked: they would stop for a long sixty seconds, scanning the woods and the road, listening for sounds of men, vehicles, aircraft; then, together move another twenty or thirty yards and repeat the process. They used their night-vision goggles to carefully sweep the area.

  After another ten minutes of movement, Gunny Lobato was beginning to get nervous—the target was nowhere to be seen. He signaled the radio operator to join up with him as the squad moved cautiously ahead. Lobato searched the forest, but with no luck. The target was still south of them; he had to be.

  He had to be very—

  Someone was kneeling at the base of a tree, just thirty feet ahead of Lobato. He appeared out of nowhere. He was slowly getting to his feet, but he was still hidden to Marine Corps Corporal John Butler, who was moving in his direction to Lobato’s right. Butler had just crouched down as he heard the faint rustle of leaves—he knew that something was out there, but he couldn’t see or identify it yet.

  Lobato had raised his MP5 and had clicked on the small infrared sniperscope searchlight, which would provide bright illumination for anyone wearing PV-5 goggles, when suddenly the stranger whispered loudly, “Hey, Marine, I here. Here.”

  Butler swung around, saw the stranger, and was about to fire when the man said quickly, “Top of the morning, Marine, top of the morning,” in a thick, Transylvanian-sounding accent.

  “Hands up!” Lobato hissed, praying silently that Butler wouldn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t. The man’s hands shot up in the air. His right hand was empty; his left held a thin briefcase. “Drop the briefcase!” Lobato shouted.

  “No!” the man shouted back.

  In a flash Butler leaped toward the man, driving the butt of his rifle into the stranger’s solar plexus and dropping him to the ground. With an animal-like wooof! of air forced out of his lungs, the man collapsed, and Butler jumped on top of him, scrambling for the man’s hands.

  Two other assault-team members rushed to Lobato’s side. They pried the man’s fingers off the briefcase, and one Marine took it away to examine it away from the others in case it was booby-trapped. Lobato knelt to the man and searched him, loosening all his clothing, running his gloved hands next to his skin to check for wires or weapons. It took several seconds, but finally the man began to regain his breath, grunting, “Top of the morning, top of the morning,” in a hoarse whisper.